Malfunctioning Sociopath
by Copgirl
Summary: The story takes place after HLV. John and Mary have decided they want to move to the small Canadian town Gladstone. Could that be the reason why Sherlock had over-dosed and is now in hospital? The relationship of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade is based on my story "Five Times ..". I couldn't add more characters but Mary plays an important part in this story.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a story I wrote for my friend Sabine's birthday. Sometime ago she saw the amazing artwork I used as a cover-image for this story. It is called "drugs", done by the talented "Gregory-Welter" and can be found at the website from devianart. Thank you, for the permission to use it for this story. Anyway - when Sabine saw it, she told me she wanted a story for this picture and this is what I came up with. Well, those are mostly my ideas. At some point one or the other character had an idea of his own. Believe me, it is no fun writing when you try to handle a disgruntled Mycroft or John. It's better to go along when they want to do something._

_I'm grateful that my wonderful Beta Jack63kids found time to come aboard to help. Thank you so much, Jack!_

_Still, I don't own anything - ask my bank, they'll agree. The characers belong to ACD and, of course, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Thanks guys!_

_The story is done already but you'll get it bit by bit. But I can promise you already that the last chapter will be posted on the 17th October._

_Oh, and I totally wouldn't mind comments. :-)_

* * *

><p><strong>PRESENT DAY<strong>

"Myc?"

Mycroft Holmes blinked awake when he heard the soft voice of Greg Lestrade, who was gently shaking his shoulder.

"I'm fine, Gregory," Mycroft tried to assure his friend, while straightening up. He winced from the pain in his back. Several hours curled up in a hospital chair had wreaked havoc on his body.

"You're as stiff as a board," the Inspector protested.

"Not true." However, the sound that came from the Politician's spine when he moved carefully, sounded like every single vertebra was clicking back into the position it was supposed to occupy.

Giving up all pretence, Mycroft groaned. "Not true," he repeated, peering at the doubtful expression on Greg's face. "A board would be much more flexible than my spine is right now."

With a final clicking noise, the last vertebra re-aligned itself and Mycroft stood up to stretch to his full height.

"Sorry, I couldn't make it sooner. Was caught up at a crime-scene. What happened?" Greg indicated Sherlock Holmes' sleeping form in the hospital bed. "He looks like he..." His voice trailed off and his gaze flew to Mycroft's face in alarm. "Did he OD?"

Mycroft nodded gravely. Directing his pained expression at his sleeping sibling, he gently touched the dark curls before he spoke again.

"He won't wake up for several hours. We should go and find a decent cup of tea."

Greg nodded. "Probably a good idea. There's a new café across the street. They're open around the clock."

Both men left the room; the only sounds left were the beeping of the heart-monitor and the hissing of the respiratory apparatus.


	2. Chapter 2

**THREE DAYS EARLIER**

John sat at the kitchen table and finished the list he had compiled over the past week.

"How is it going, Honey?" Mary Watson bent down to kiss her husband's hair.

"Think I got them all, Love." He pulled Mary into his lap. "With the guest-list from the wedding it was easy enough."

"You didn't invite them all, did you?"

John huffed. "Certainly not. It's twelve people. The rest are getting a note, informing them of our move. Only half of them are going to get the new address though."

Mary grinned. "Probably a wise decision." She struggled to get up. "I wish I could help more with the packing but most of the day I feel like an over-fed hippo that fell into a pool and can't get out."

"You are quite pretty for a hippo, you know?"

"Oh, thank you so much, Dr Watson. Now, if you'd continue packing, I'll finish the invitations for the farewell party and get them to the post-office." When John had stood up, Mary slapped his bottom.

"Oi, that's spousal abuse!"

"Since Sherlock isn't here to protect you, I can have my evil way with you," Mary told John. She gave his bottom another, more gentle slap and sat down to write.

Sherlock, right. Sherlock wasn't there. John left the room, pondering silently. He and Mary were going to move to Canada and John hadn't gotten round to telling him. First his friend had been in military prison with the prospect of going on a mission for Mycroft. A mission that would almost certainly have proven fatal within a few month. John had decided there was no need to aggravate Sherlock any further by telling him about their plan to move.

When all of a sudden the verdict was reversed because of Moriarty's message, John had firstly simply forgotten about it in all the excitement and the next time they had met he had simply felt incapable of telling Sherlock.

No, sending him a card to invite him to the farewell party was not good. John shook his head. What had he been thinking? 'Probably nothing!' a tiny voice told him.

He went back and told Mary that tomorrow he would go and talk to Sherlock in person. It would be a bit not good if his friend learned about the move through a letter.


	3. Chapter 3

**TWO DAYS EARLIER**

The morning didn't quite start the way John had wanted. Instead of having breakfast with Mary before heading over to Baker Street, he received an early call to replace Sue Lamar, a colleague of his, in surgery. Sue's sister had died in an accident and she needed to take care of her sister's family in Birmingham.

Sitting in the bus the doctor sent a text to Sherlock saying he'd come over to Baker Street after work but he didn't receive a reply. The detective was probably stuck in the bowels of Barts or out on a case and too busy to reply. Or he was being his jolly self who couldn't be bothered with something as plebeian as answering a text from John.

When the Doctor arrived at the surgery, he found himself confronted with a waiting-room full of patients, unable to leave for the duration of several long hours.

oOo

It was almost six when John dragged his tired hide outside. He tried unsuccessfully for almost ten minutes to flag down a cab before one cabby took pity on him.

"What is it with you lot, that you stop for tall men with dark, curly hair right away but not for a short bloke with blond hair?" he complained.

The cabby gave him a puzzled look via the rear-view mirror but didn't reply.

The first thing John noticed when he arrived at 221b was the straightened door-knocker. So, Mycroft had been visiting which meant that Sherlock was probably in a bad mood. To his surprise though Sherlock was almost bouncing from excitement when he came in.

John looked around. A new experiment was set up in the kitchen, occupying almost the whole space of the surfaces available in that room. He wondered if the kitchen was used for its originally intended purpose at all.

"What is all that?" he asked Sherlock after he had looked around but couldn't even begin to understand what his friend was doing.

"I'm trying to devise a more elegant means of tracing stolen money."

John took a crumpled looking piece of paper that was lying inconspicuously on the chair he usually occupied and put it on the table before he sat down. He saw Sherlock's gaze flicker quickly to the clock before the detective came over and sat down opposite John.

"Are you actually interrupting the experiment you're busy with just for me?" John asked incredulously.

"Sort of."

John was certain he was missing something vital but when Sherlock didn't offer any information he let it go. Rubbing his left hand absently over the leg of his trousers, he studied Sherlock and took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. John cared very much about his friend and he knew Sherlock wouldn't take his and Mary's plans to move well.

He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything, Sherlock held up a cream coloured envelope. The invitation to the farewell party.

"Oh my god!" John turned pale. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Look, Sherlock, I wanted to explain..."

"To explain why you are leaving London to start over in Gladstone?" Sherlock interrupted, his voices sounding flat and emotionless. "Obviously Gladstone offers something that London doesn't have. A two hour drive west of Winnipeg, literally in the middle of no-where." Sherlock got up and began to pace. "Maybe it's the climate or", Sherlock turned so fast his beige lab-coat, in John's opinion the most hideous piece of clothing Sherlock possessed, swirled almost as dramatically as his Belstaff, "maybe London got too dangerous for you. Loosing your touch, John?"

John jumped up from his seat and stood in front of Sherlock to stop his pacing.

"That's not it!" He looked at his friend and was probably the only one except Mycroft who could detect the sadness in Sherlock's eyes behind all the agitation.

"Mary has friends in Gladstone and they're in need of both a doctor and a nurse in their hospital. It's only for a couple of years. I", John shook his head, "I don't feel comfortable enough with recent events to have my child grow up here."

"Here as in near me?" Sherlock cocked his head to one side.

"It has nothing to do with you!" John shouted.

"No? It has nothing to do with the fact that you and your family could be a target because of your association with me?" Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse. "Please, John, you don't need to move. I can stay away from you."

John could hardly bear the desperation in Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock, I don't want you to stay away. It's just..." He shrugged helplessly. "Fuck, what is that?" John rubbed his left hand again down the leg of his trousers before he inspected his fingers which had begun hurting all of a sudden.

On both his index finger and his thumb a black spot was visible.

Sherlock took John's hand, shot a quick glance at the clock and shook his head.

"No, that doesn't do it either." He walked to the kitchen table where he began scribbling in a notebook.

"What doesn't do it? Sherlock, what have you done to my hand?" John followed Sherlock into the kitchen but he went to the sink and turned on the tap.

"I wouldn't..." Before Sherlock could finish the sentence John held his hand under the flow of water.

"Aaaaahhhh, FUCK! What is that on my hand? It feels like it's on fire." John's eyes began to water from the pain.

It couldn't be helped. Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him downstairs to head for the nearest A & E.


	4. Chapter 4

"What happened to your hand?" Mary studied her husband's bandaged left hand and the plaster he sported on his left cheek.

"Sherlock mixed some chemicals together that also included sulphuric acid. It was supposed to be instrumental in convicting thieves. In the absence of a guinea pig he tried its effectiveness on me."

"I know he's your best friend but why would you allow that?" Mary asked, clearly confused.

John's eyebrows headed for his hairline. "Are you kidding me? I didn't allow it. Sherlock left a prepared piece of paper on my chair and when I touched it his mixture got on my hand. Apparently the contact with water worsened the effect and would presumably burn the money if it were raining." John giggled at the thought.

He sat down at the kitchen table and Mary put a cup of tea in front of him without asking.

"How did he take the news about us moving?"

John's face turned serious again. He looked down at his hand, absent-mindedly plucking at the bandage. "Not well. He got the invitation to the party before I got there." He looked at his wife with sad eyes. "Why did you sent the invitation when you knew I would go see him today? It was predictable he wouldn't take it well."

"I'm sorry, Love. I really forgot."

John kept sipping his tea, tired from the busy day in the surgery but even more from the fight with Sherlock. The tea didn't help either although it was unusually strong. He added another dash of milk.

Why hadn't he considered how badly Sherlock would take the plans to move to Canada? He should have known. All of a sudden the whole business of moving sounded like a terrible idea.

Once he had finished his tea John wanted to take a shower but he barely managed to pull on his pyjamas and slip into his bed before he fell asleep. He didn't even notice when Mary picked up his mobile that had fallen to the floor when he had undressed.

Going through the texts John had received she deleted those that had come in from Sherlock with an apology, answering the last one with 'Fuck off! JW' before deleting it as well.


	5. Chapter 5

It was about an hour after John had left that Sherlock texted him. He had apologized, knowing it was important for John to hear or read those words even though it must have been obvious to the doctor that Sherlock had never intended to injure him. The detective was about to sent the seventh text - more or less a variation on the theme - when an answer came. He sighed with relief until he read what John had written. His mouth turned into a thin line that betrayed the hurt he felt before he switched off the phone and took his violin from its case.

Sherlock stood in his living-room, playing the violin. Actually what he did to the innocent instrument could hardly be called playing it for he was almost sawing away with the bow. Therefore, unsurprisingly really, Mrs Hudson showed up on his doorway.

"Sherlock, what on earth got into you? I expect the windows to shatter any given moment. It sounds as if you're torturing a cat."

"If it bothers you, take a sleeping pill!" Sherlock snapped.

Had he slapped her in the face, the old woman wouldn't have looked more shocked.

The moment those words had left his mouth Sherlock wanted nothing more than to take them back.

"Mrs Hudson..."

"It's all right, Sherlock. I can see that you wish to be left alone." Mrs Hudson turned and left the flat without another word. When she closed the door behind her softly, the detective could see that tears were spilling from her eyes.

Sherlock wondered for several minutes how he had neither noticed nor cared in the past when he hurt people with his remarks or behaviour. Had he been happier then? He wasn't sure.

He shook his head and pondered whether he should go downstairs and apologize. If John were here, he would have asked him, demanded actually that he went and apologized.

John.

Sherlock swallowed and shook his head in disbelieve. Why would he move to Canada? Canada was a beautiful country with plenty of nice people who would consider themselves lucky to have the blond doctor in their midst but that didn't explain why John was moving there. Every single time he and John had taken a trip to the countryside they both had been glad to return to London. Unless they had a disagreement which did happen once in a while, they had exchanged glances as soon as they had entered their flat in Baker Street. It was their home. At least it used to be their home. Now it only belonged to Sherlock and without John living here too, it didn't feel like a home any more. John was his home.

Sherlock's eyes went wide when he realized the truth of that thought. John was his home. Yes, that was it. When Sherlock had been away for two years, literally fighting for his life, John had been his anchor. Every time he had thought about giving up, the thought of seeing his friend again had kept him going.

Unknowingly John had even saved Sherlock's live when he had been shot.

_John Watson is definitely in danger!_

The thought had been as efficient as a shock from a defibrillator to restart his heart. His heart. It belonged to John and John alone. If he moved to Canada, most likely permanently, Sherlock knew he would perish. There was no place for him in Gladstone. Moving a Sherlock Holmes from London permanently to a small town in Canada would destroy him as swiftly as a palm tree shifted to Alaska. But what was London for him without John Watson? What was Sherlock without John Watson but an empty shell.

Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck and shrugged into his coat. He walked down the stairs and before he went outside he slammed his fist twice against Mrs Hudson's door.

"I'm sorry!" he yelled and left the house.


	6. Chapter 6

**PRESENT DAY**

Greg carried the steaming mugs of piping hot coffee to the table. It was half past midnight and except for a student who sat bent over his books at another table, probably drinking coffee by the litre, the café was empty.

"Thank you, Gregory."

Mycroft sighed through his nose and blew carefully at the hot brew in his mug before taking a sip. A corner of his mouth curled in a soft smile. The perfect amount of milk and sugar, Gregory always knew how he liked both his tea and coffee. The warm feeling in his stomach not only came from the hot brew but also from knowing that of late he could consider this loyal, trustworthy man who sat across from him his friend.

"Feeling better?"

Mycroft nodded. After another sip he sat the mug down and looked at his counterpart. "I didn't see it coming," he said, knowing there was no need to explain that he meant Sherlock overdosing.

Greg scratched his chest. "Me neither. And I did see him less than twenty-four hours ago."

"You did?"

"Yes, he came into my office, babbled something about a client who had," he made quotation marks with his fingers, "misplaced his mother-in-law."

Mycroft snorted. "Misplaced?"

"That's what Sherlock told me." Scratching his chest again, Greg took the mug and drank from his coffee before he continued. "He stayed maybe five minutes, prattling something about this mother-in-law and left. He didn't appear to be particularly depressed. It was rather the opposite. Like he was onto something."

The coffee was the perfect temperature and Mycroft even closed his eyes to enjoy the flavour.

"This is really good coffee, Gregory." He downed the rest and set down the mug.

"The last time I saw Sherlock was two days ago. He", Mycroft blushed slightly, "he played a prank on me."

"A prank?" Greg grinned. "What did he do?"

Mycroft shrugged, embarrassment evident on his face. "He smeared something to the door-knocker at Baker Street. I guess it is obsessive behaviour that I straighten the knocker without even knowing I'm doing it."

"Um, okay. You lost me. What did he smear on the knocker? Something yucky?"

"No, it was actually something acidic that turned my thumb and my index finger blue for a few hours. It could only be removed with honey, of all things. My dear brother is experimenting to devise a more elegant means of tracing stolen money."

"Well, the current methods aren't very good. I give you that," Greg agreed. "But dyeing your fingers blue..." He laughed again. "Anyway, it is a bit odd that Sherlock would start taking drugs unless..." Greg's eyes went wide and he slapped his forehead.

"Gregory?" Mycroft studied his friend who quickly pulled out an envelope he had been carrying around in the side pocket of his jacket.

"I'm an idiot! Here, read this." He slid a cream coloured envelope across the table top.

Mycroft pulled out the folded piece of paper and quickly read it. Wrinkles appeared at his forehead.

"Why on earth would Doctor Watson and his wife move to Canada?" He folded the paper and handed it back.

"Beats me." Greg spread his hands. "But I can imagine that Sherlock would be distraught about that prospect."

The Government official nodded. "A logical assumption. I wonder what Sherlock said to anger the good doctor so much that he isn't even here."

Now that Mycroft mentioned it, Greg wondered why John wasn't at Sherlock's side. Each time the mad detective had been hurt in the past John had literally hovered over him in full mother hen mode until he was better.

"You called him?" he asked.

"I did, twice, and I left a message."

The Inspector hummed. Had Sherlock really been able to upset John badly enough to keep him away once he learned about this? He had serious doubts.

Seeing that Greg had finished his coffee as well Mycroft stood up. The men didn't talk while walking back to Sherlock's room.

Nothing had changed during the thirty odd minutes they had spent in the café. Mycroft was about to sit down again, when Greg stopped him.

"Wait. You have been here for hours, probably came straight from the office. Why don't you go home, get a few hours sleep, take a shower, change and come back here. You're going to feel better. I can stay until morning. Don't have to get back to work before noon so there'd be still enough time for me to have a kip."

Mycroft considered the offer. He knew he wouldn't rest peacefully but knowing that Gregory was staying with his brother was the next best thing to being here himself.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer. I'll come back at six, if that'd be okay with you."

Greg scratched at his chest again, cursing under his breath, before he shrugged out of his jacket. Mycroft's eyes went wide.

He was right in front of the inspector with two long strides. Before Greg could react, Mycroft grabbed his shirt and began unbuttoning it quickly with deft fingers.

Greg's mouth fell open on the sudden assault.

"Myc, what are you doing?"

Even before he had finished the question, the shirt was open and Mycroft literally ripped it from his torso.

"There!" Mycroft pointed at a spot on the right side of Greg's now exposed chest.

The inspector looked down and was surprised to discover an angry red mark.

"What the hell?"

Mycroft put on a pair of surgical gloves he took from a box on the table at Sherlock's bed and carefully felt inside Greg's jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper that looked like it had been soaked in some solution. The solution had first soaked the lining of the jacket and then the shirt before coming in contact with the Inspector's skin.

"It appears to me you too have fallen victim to Sherlock's dedication to experimenting on people."

Mycroft went to find the nurse on duty, asking for an analgesic cream for Gregory to put on the mark to sooth the irritated skin. Greg immediately sighed with relief when he applied the cream.

"Well, now I only need a shirt before I start my watch." He smirked.

To his surprise Mycroft shrugged out of his own jacket, took off his waistcoat, tie and eventually his shirt to offer it to Greg.

"I only wore it for the few hours I stayed here. Since I'm going to wear my coat and scarf going home, nobody will notice."

Greg blinked owlishly and Mycroft took a step backwards.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

Shaking his head, Greg took the shirt before Mycroft could change his mind. "No, thanks, it's fine. I'm just a bit surprised." He put on the shirt and almost groaned when the soft material came in contact with his skin.

"I don't think I ever wore a shirt like this. It cost what? A hundred quid?"

"Two-hundred," Mycroft told him and Greg swallowed.

The shirt fit well enough. It was a little tight at his chest and shoulders and the sleeves were half an inch too long but Greg didn't give a fuck as long as he could wear this soft, posh shirt for a few hours. He blushed, wondering for a moment if it was kinky to enjoy wearing his friend's shirt. But since it had been offered willingly and he needed something to wear while he stayed with Sherlock, he pushed the thought aside.

"Is the shirt enough or do you require my waistcoat too?" Mycroft asked.

"The shirt is fine and I would feel more than just a bit odd wearing a waistcoat."

Mycroft got dressed and put on his coat. Once he had tied a scarf around his neck, no-one could suspect that an item of his clothing was missing.

"I don't think your jacket or your shirt can be saved at the dry-cleaner," he remarked.

"It's a shame, I really liked that jacket." Greg shrugged. "But it didn't cost that much."

"I insist on compensating you for the damage."

"Sherlock can do that, once he's back on his feet. I like the idea of him owing me a favour."

Mycroft nodded but Greg had the feeling that he might still get a new shirt and jacket anyway.

"Good night, Gregory. I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate that you're staying here."

"Sleep well, Mycroft. See you in a bit."

Greg watched his friend leaving the room and closing the door behind him quietly, before he tried to get comfortable in the very uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock's bed.


	7. Chapter 7

It was early morning when Sherlock stirred. Stirring quickly turned into thrashing around and Greg jumped up in alarm. He pressed the button to alert a nurse and put a hand to Sherlock's shoulder in order to sooth him.

A hand grabbed his forearm, squeezing hard, pulling him close.

"Mycroft, Agra is back!"

Sherlock was shaking like he had a seizure.

"What? Sherlock, it's Greg. Who is back?"

That moment the door opened and a nurse came in. She took in the whole situation and pressed a button on a small device she had clipped on to her white coat before shoving Greg aside.

"Mr. Holmes?"

When Sherlock didn't react the nurse checked his vital signs and less than a minute later another nurse and a doctor burst in.

"Please, wait outside, Sir!"

Greg nodded and left, fear making his throat constrict. They always say that the first twenty-four hours are the most critical. Twenty-four not eight or ten.

He looked at his watch. It was ten to six, Mycroft would be back any minute so there was no need to call him.

The DI began pacing. Who was back? He had understood Mycroft's name and 'is back' at the end of Sherlock's short outburst. The name of whoever was back had obviously been swallowed by Sherlock's sound of pain. Argh or a similar sound. Could that be a name? No. For a second Greg wondered why Sherlock had thought he was Mycroft but then pieces clicked together. He wore his friend's shirt which felt quite different from the material of Greg's shirt. Plus there was probably a touch of Mycroft's cologne left on the material for Sherlock to register. Enough to convince the barely conscious man that it was not Greg but his brother at his side.

"Gregory!" Mycroft's voice sounded alarmed, when he spotted the Inspector pacing the floor instead of being in the room with his brother.

"Sherlock had some sort of seizure just a couple of minutes ago." Before Mycroft could run into the room, Greg grabbed him by the arm. "A doctor and two nurses are inside. We better leave them alone."

Mycroft nodded and slumped against the wall.

"There was nothing you could have done," Greg told him. "Sherlock came round just for a few seconds before his vitals went crazy."

Greg let go of Mycroft's arm.

"He spoke to me, said something and apparently thought it was you he talked to." Greg blushed slightly. "I guess it was the shirt."

"What did he say?"

"He said your name, than he made a sound like he was in pain and right afterwards he said _is back_."

"What did the name sound like?" Mycroft looked at the Inspector intensely.

Greg shook his head. "Sorry, Myc, I really didn't understand what he said. It sounded like argh." He tried imitating the sound he had heard coming from Sherlock.

"Damn!"

The door of Sherlock's room opened and one nurse and the doctor came back out. The doctor walked over to Mycroft.

"Your brother is going to be all right. This kind of seizure is common for patients who have overdosed."

Mycroft lowered his gaze. "I know," he replied softly. "When do you think he'll wake up?"

The doctor shrugged. "Difficult to say. Maybe later today but it could take as long as tomorrow. If you have no further questions, you could actually go back inside." A polite way of saying, I've got to go.

Mycroft thanked the man and he and Greg stepped back into Sherlock's room. The nurse was jotting down a few numbers and with a curd nod she left.

Sherlock's vitals were checked by his brother carefully. He compared them with the parameters he knew from Sherlock's past. Eventually he sighed and turned to Greg.

"It looks like he's indeed improving. You should go home, Gregory, and get some sleep." Studying the tired face of his friend and the worried gaze directed at the sleeping form in the bed, he stepped closer and laid a hand on the Inspector's shoulder. "I'm certain it won't make a difference that you didn't get the name," he lied.

Greg nodded. "I hope you are right." He walked to the door. "Call me if anything comes up or you need me."

"I always do," Mycroft replied, conjuring a slight smile on Greg's face.

"I presume this needs to be dry-cleaned?" Greg asked, touching the shirt he wore.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, that shirt actually survives washing, spinning and drying rather well. The material is pretty amazing. I could get soaked by rain and sleep on a bench in the park", he made a droll face, "not that I see reason to do so but the shirt would still look good after such an ordeal."

Greg smirked. "I wish my face was made from the same material."

He left Mycroft laughing about the strange idea.


	8. Chapter 8

**ONE DAY EARLIER**

Sherlock's Belstaff was heavy with water from the downpour. The rain had set in soon after he had left his flat, turning London's dirty streets into colourful streams that reflected the city lights.

It had taken the detective longer than expected to find the people he wanted to talk to. There were items he required and a copy of a case-file had to be retrieved.

For the latter Bill Wiggins took him to a woman whose name was even a mystery to Sherlock. A few days ago Bill had taken the copies of what was most likely faked balance sheets to her on Sherlock's behalf. If anything she was fantastic with numbers and could read a balance sheet like nobody else. Sherlock waltzed into her flat all cheekbones and turned up collar, making her blush ferociously. Her German accent was thick while she almost choked on her explanations of how the balance had been faked.

She turned down the offered money and Sherlock had almost walked away but a very stern gaze from Bill stopped the detective. He had turned and studied the woman who literally trembled under his scrutiny. After a few seconds he mumbled,"Thank you!" and kissed her on the cheek. Outside the flat Bill had given him a pat on the shoulder before they had gone separate ways.

With the explanation of how the balance had been faked he could help his client to claim the money her husband had scammed from her.

Sherlock came home just before dawn. Hanging the dripping wet coat on a hanger he went straight into the bathroom to take a long and very hot shower. More than ever he wished John had been there to make tea for him.

Instead Sherlock had to make tea himself, his slender body dressed in pyjama bottoms, a t-shirt he had nicked from his former flatmate and his blue dressing-gown. From the fridge he took a sandwich that sat peacefully next to a jar containing what looked suspiciously like a pickled hand. The hand had been a gift from another client who had discovered this treasure in his grandmother's house after her demise. Sherlock studied it curiously while he ate the sandwich and allowed the tea to brew.

He carried the tea to the kitchen table and began unpacking the chemicals he had purchased. All except one were stored in various boxes and glasses. A small brown package went into a compartment in the bottom of John's armchair. Once he had stashed it, Sherlock ran a hand along the backrest. He went to bed, wondering if his friend would occupy this very chair ever again.


	9. Chapter 9

**ONE DAY EARLIER**

John woke up the following morning with a headache. He felt sick to his stomach and wondered if he had been boozing but somehow had forgotten all about it. Fortunately, the bathroom was next to the bedroom and John made it in time to the toilet to throw up. John studied his face in the mirror. He looked as bad as he felt. His gaze fell upon the clock in the bathroom. 10:34. He should have been at work hours ago.

Mary's worried face came into view. She studied the pale complexion of her husband.

"You look terrible, Honey." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "I called the surgery, telling them you weren't feeling well when you wouldn't wake up earlier."

"Thanks, Love."

John brushed his teeth and drank a bit of water directly from the tap.

"You don't think it could be a side-effect from the chemicals Sherlock contaminated you with?" Mary asked.

Before John could answer her question she shook her head. "Sorry, I'm silly. Forget what I said." Kissing the nape of his neck she held out her hand to help him get back to bed.

"Have you looked if he texted or tried to call you?"

John shook his head, groaning. Not the best idea. He fished the mobile from the pocket of his jeans.

"No call, no text." John tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. The least he had expected was Sherlock telling him he was sorry.

Mary stroked his hair and adjusted the duvet around John. "Don't worry. I'm sure he'll get in touch soon enough. Maybe he's embarrassed that he hurt you. I'm sure that wasn't his intention."

John's last thoughts before he fell asleep centred on why his best friend hadn't bothered calling or texting.

oOo

Sherlock had prepared a slip of paper to try out his latest combination of chemicals on another unsuspecting guinea pig, DI Lestrade. He was in and out of the DI's office within five minutes. It had been ridiculously easy to put the paper in the pocket of his jacket while the man had been distracted by Sherlock's story about a case that had been offered to him. The misplaced mother-in-law. Sherlock knew that John would have loved using it for the title of one of their adventures in his blog.

John. The detective's hands curled into fists and he hid them deep inside the pockets of his coat. He would have liked nothing better than not to feel rejected with the resultant feeling of hurt. He still couldn't understand why either John or Mary would consider moving to the Canadian wilderness in the first place. To begin with there was nothing there and certainly nothing for John. Whatever the doctor told himself he would find there, it would not be happiness or even contentment. His limp would return within the first twenty-four hours of his arrival.

The threat of John leaving London and the text he had sent, although Sherlock had apologized, sat like lead upon his shoulders. For once being honest with himself the detective admitted he would never allow anybody else to get that close again. He would depend again on Mycroft for witty company. Not that his brother was witty in the first place.

Back home Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and went to his bedroom. He retrieved the package he had only stored a few hours earlier in John's armchair and from a box in the back of his closet he took the syringe and all the other paraphernalia he needed. With practised ease the cocaine was soon ready to fulfil its function as silencer of his brain; to mute the voice inside his head that told the detective how very much he hurt from the mere thought of his best and only friend leaving him. Not only leaving him but leaving him of his own free will. The syringe fell from his grasp and Sherlock cradled his face in his hands.

"Please, John, please, don't leave me."

He kept whispering those words like a mantra but he knew they would make no difference.

Sherlock compressed the vein in his arm and picked up the syringe again. He studied the liquid and decided he had prepared too much. It had been months since the last time he had used cocaine and even then he had kept it to a minimum. Just enough to convince Magnussen that he was an addict again.

The tip of the needle penetrate the skin. Sherlock felt his hand shaking slightly. Just a little bit, he told himself. A little to ease the pain. But in front of his inner eyes John's face came into view. John who looked at him with those impossible blue eyes reflecting all the disappointed that his friend was using drugs again. No, he couldn't do it.

Sherlock was about to pull out the needle when two strong hands grabbed his arm and the hand that held the syringe and without hesitation the whole content of the syringe was injected into his bloodstream. The last image Sherlock saw before stars exploded in his brain, was the image of Mary Watson who looked almost sadly at him, whispering, "I'm sorry, Sherlock!"


	10. Chapter 10

**PRESENT DAY**

It couldn't be helped. Mycroft had to go to the office around noon. The Prime Minister wouldn't take no for an answer without an explanation and a truthful explanation was out of the question. There was no way Mycroft would tell him his brother was in hospital because he had been found with an overdose of cocaine in his bloodstream.

Greg had to work too but after some heated discussion with Sally Donovan he put the whole load of files he had to read and sign into a large briefcase and drove to hospital. He could be reached through his mobile if necessity should arise and it didn't make much of a difference weather he read those files in his office or some place else.

Therefore Greg was present when Sherlock came round again.

"John?"

Greg felt no surprise. Of course, John would be the first person Sherlock asked for. Unfortunately, so far he hadn't seen or heard from the doctor. It actually was a bit odd that he still hadn't answered Mycroft's calls.

"No, Sherlock. It's me. Greg," he hesitated for a moment before he decided to add his last name, just to make certain the detective really knew who he was talking to, "Lestrade."

"Where is John?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Mycroft called John and left some messages on his mailbox. But so far he hasn't called back."

The answer did nothing to sooth Sherlock. Instead he took hold of Greg's wrist and squeezed it with surprising strength. "John is in danger. Agra is back."

Sherlock looked at Greg imploringly.

"What do you mean? Why is he in danger? And who is Agra?"

"Can't explain." Sherlock's breathing got laboured and an alarm was set off. "Tell Mycroft. John. Agra."

The eyes rolled wildly in his sockets.

"Sherlock!" Greg held onto his hand. "I'll go and make sure John is all right. Don't worry, okay?"

The DI had a feeling Sherlock had understood but the man lost consciousness again and a moment later the Inspector was pushed aside by a nurse and a doctor.

Greg waited until they told him that Sherlock was okay. The alarm had been raised when the heartbeat had sped up. The doctor told him he was actually content with the progress of Sherlock's recovery and he should be considerable better in a few hours.

The DI took his files and tried to reach Mycroft. When he got the mailbox he left a message, that Sherlock had woken up again. Furthermore he relayed the information he would try to get hold of John Watson and that Sherlock had told him Agra was back.


	11. Chapter 11

John sat in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and eating a slice of toast when the doorbell rang. Fastening the belt of his dressing gown he opened the door to find Greg Lestrade standing outside.

"Oi, mate, you look awful," he greeted the doctor.

"Hi Greg. Come in." John stepped aside to let the Inspector enter. "I had an upset stomach and a headache from hell."

"That probably explains why you haven't answered Mycroft's calls."

"Mycroft called me?" John shook his head. He pulled out his mobile checking if there had been calls or messages. "No, neither call nor message on the mailbox."

Greg frowned "That's odd. Do you have a new number?"

"Are you kidding? Took me ages to memorize this number. But you certainly didn't come around playing messenger for the mighty Government. Something wrong with Sherlock?"

John tried to sound indifferent but he couldn't keep his emotions out of his voice. Greg identified disappointment as well as sadness but also anger in the doctor's voice.

"John, Sherlock was found by Mrs Hudson with a syringe still in his arm. He overdosed."

"Oh my god. When?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I guess if she hadn't found him..." There was no need for Greg to finish the sentence.

"He's in the Royal London in Whitechapel."

"Mary!" John shouted. "I'll get dressed and be there as soon as I can." John hurried upstairs and only seconds later Mary came down the very same stairs.

"Sherlock is in hospital?" she asked.

"Yes. Look, Mary, he asked for John right away, said he is in danger." Greg shrugged helplessly. "Mycroft is in a meeting with the PM, couldn't reach him but maybe you can go and find out what all this is about."

"Sure, don't worry." Mary nodded. "What about you?"

"I have to get to the Yard. I took some folders with me and have to return them before I can head back to the hospital."

"Don't worry," Mary told the DI, "we'll be there shortly and personally take care of Sherlock."

Greg sighed. "Sherlock will be glad to see you. He told me that Agra was back. Does that ring a bell?"

Mary shook her head. "No. I'll ask John, maybe he'll know." She opened the door for Greg. "Don't worry. We'll be on our way shortly. I'm certain you got work to do. We're taking the next watch."

The Inspector nodded and headed for his car.

* * *

><p>Okay, everyone. There's going to be a major character death in the next chapter. In case you want to read it because you've followed the story so far but absolutely need to know more before you do, drop me a line. I'll answer your question(s) the day the new chapter goes online - not before.<p>

Thanks for the reviews so far. I'm always happy to know if you enjoy the story but also if you find something that you don't like. Critic is quite valuable.


	12. Chapter 12

**++ Warning: Major Character Death in this chapter! ++  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The Inspector had just arrived in his office when Mycroft's text came in.<p>

'_A.G.R.A. is Mary Watson. Come to the hospital as soon as possible. MH._'

It didn't make much sense to Greg since had he neither been informed about Mary Watson's past nor that it had been she who had shot Sherlock some months ago. Still his internal alarm went off when he hurried to the hospital. He asked for one patrol car with two officers for backup just to be on the safe side. No helicopter, no special unit though. Mycroft certainly would have those at his disposal if necessary.

More often than not the police arrive after a crime has happened or is at least in progress already. Greg arrived early and one could say right in time for the showdown.

When he opened the door to Sherlock's room, he saw Mycroft standing in front of his brother's bed, facing both John and Mary. The politician's expression was threatening and if he had been an animal undoubtedly he would have raised his hackles and bared his fangs. Mycroft Holmes had no need for those features. He could provide a proper threat with one look.

Sherlock's eyes were open and from the expression on his face his gaze was undoubtedly directed at John.

The ex-soldier stood a bit to the side, his back ramrod straight and his gaze seemed to shift between his wife and his best friends.

Greg stopped just inside the room when he saw that Mary held a gun with a silencer.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. Stay where you are, please." She didn't even turn around, only her slightly cocked head gave away that she was listening to hear if he moved or not.

"You simply won't die," she addressed Sherlock.

"Maybe I'm lucky," the detective said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Maybe you were not the target," Mary suggested in return.

"Could have fooled me," John growled.

"Shush, Honey." Mary's gaze flickered over to him before returning to the man in the bed.

"It's my brother, John. The real target is Mycroft," Sherlock spoke quietly. "But why?"

"You knew from the beginning, Sherlock, didn't you?" Mary sounded pleased. "That's why you forgave me after I shot you."

Greg's jaw literally dropped. "You shot Sherlock?" He started to move and Mary stopped him with a quick flick of the gun in her hand.

Moments later she began to smile. "Thank you, Greg. You just helped me out of a dilemma."

She looked at Sherlock again. "He is the target," she nodded in Mycroft's direction, "because he is responsible for the death of Anatoli Tschevchenko's son Vitali. Anatoli wanted revenge, he hired me, end of story."

"Vitali Tschevchenko died because he and his friends assassinated three members of the British Embassy in St. Petersburg three years ago and were caught," Mycroft snarled.

"They were caught because you provided the FSB with the necessary information. Vitali was killed during questioning."

"He was a terrorist," Mycroft replied.

Mary gave a short laugh. "His father didn't care what his son did. He wanted revenge. But he didn't want the man who provided the information killed. My assignment was to kill a loved one so you would suffer like he suffered before he committed suicide."

"Hang on," John spoke up. "I can't imagine why you took this assignment in the first place but since Tschevchenko is dead why continue?"

"I have a reputation, my Love. Once I accept an assignment I see it through. Unfortunately, I actually like Sherlock. I could have killed him with a shot and I could have killed him yesterday." Mary shrugged. "Fortunately, the Iceman as you call him so fittingly, John, has just offered me a glimpse into his heart and surprisingly it's not only his brother he cares for."

The next seconds were a blur. Mycroft shouted, "Gregory, look out!" while charging. Although very pregnant, Mary turned extremely fast, hitting John with the barrel of her gun in the temple. Still weak from the past thirty hours that he had spent either sleeping or throwing up, the soldier went down. The barrel kept moving and Greg was shot in the chest. Mary continued turning and the next shot went into Mycroft's thigh. Sherlock, still extremely weak, had moved as soon as Mary had hit John but he tumbled out of his bed into a helpless heap.

Mary didn't shoot him. Instead she took in the situation and put the gun into her handbag.

"Gregory!" Mycroft was lying at the floor, bleeding from the wound in his leg but his eyes were directed at the unmoving figure of the DI.

"My assignment is done," Mary told the politician, her voice revealing no emotion whatsoever.

It looked like the colour of Mycroft's eyes turned from blue to steel grey. His eyes flicked to the umbrella that lay maybe a metre out of reach.

The corners of Mary's mouth twitched. "And here I thought you were so clever but again, your eyes gave you away. "

She picked up the umbrella, tucked it under one arm and looked down on Mycroft. "Is this your secret weapon to shoot me in the back? I don't think so."

Mary went to the door, stepping almost gracefully over Greg Lestrade's body.

Once outside the room her whole demeanour changed. She spotted the two police officers, Greg Lestrade's back-up.

"Help!" she screamed and pointed at the door. "Two men have been shot." She headed towards the exit of the hospital as the officers burst into the chaos in  
>Sherlock's room.<p>

Sherlock managed to struggle to his feet the exact moment John Watson came round. The detective saw his brother pulling out his mobile with an expression of utter abhorrence on his face.

"No!" he shouted but it was too late. Mycroft punched in the final sequence to send a signal to a device inside his umbrella. A millisecond later the sound of an explosion echoed through the hospital, an explosion that ripped the umbrella apart, mortally wounding Mary who was carrying it.

Shoving the people aside who entered the room, Sherlock stumbled into the corridor with John in his wake. They found Mary, barely conscious in a corner. Blood was running from her nose, ears and a large wound in her stomach.

"Mary!" John knelt down beside her. His eyes filled with tears while he put one hand on her forehead, the other on her protruding belly.

She managed a thin-lipped smile. "Don't fret, Honey. The baby wasn't yours anyway."

With this final lie on her lips, a lie only Sherlock had deduced, she died.


	13. Chapter 13

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

DI Gregory Lestrade winced as he lowered himself into the seat of the limousine.

"Thanks." He nodded and looked at Anthea, who was for a change not typing on her phone. "Does he suspect anything?"

"No, I kept him in various meetings the whole day and he's expecting to have dinner with an American Senator who he thoroughly destests.

Greg cringed while a grin simultaneously crept onto his face. "If that is what you call a token of friendship I'm not sure I want to know what you do to people you dislike."

"You don't want to know," Anthea told him, giving him a toothy smile that made a crocodile look like a cuddly toy.

The bullet from Mary's gun had hit the DI in the chest but it had missed his heart by an inch. He had been released exactly on Mycroft's birthday and he had planned a surprise dinner with the help of Mycroft's PA.

The politician himself still walked with a limp from the wound he had suffered in his thigh but was healing nicely. When Mycroft entered the restaurant and caught sight of his friend instead of the expected Senator, his face turned from a polite but fake smile to a dazzling one. Seeing his friend up and about was the best gift anyone could have given him for his birthday.

oOo

While those two friends enjoyed a delightful dinner, Sherlock accompanied John to the airport. A week ago the funeral of both Mary and the baby had taken place. It had been a quiet yet painful affair.

Sherlock had implored his brother to keep the actual events on that fateful day a secret and Mycroft had thrown in his full weight into explaining the whole affair away. The super secret sounding story had caused raised eyebrows but nobody had dared to question the Government official.

John had decided to go to Gladstone after all - for a three month stint. He needed the time to come to terms with the events and since the Canadian town still had need of a doctor he hoped the mutual support would help himself as well as Gladstone's population.

Sherlock had felt the past two weeks like he was walking in a mine-field. Either too much proximity or too much distance would set off John and the detective was almost exhausted from the full-time job of trying to deduce what was best for his friend. In the end he discovered that he must have done something right because before John faced the adventure of going through security at Heathrow Airport, he threw himself into Sherlock's arms and tried to hug the living daylight out of him.

His nose buried in John's hair, Sherlock told his friend that everything would be okay, he would stay in touch (scout's honour!) and he would try not to burn down the flat in his absence.

Finally John successfully confused Sherlock with a kiss on the cheek. Only when the doctor sent him a text a few minutes later, _'I promise to give it back. JW'_, did the detective notice that John had used the kiss as a distraction to nick his blue scarf. This favourite bit of Sherlock's clothing would travel to Canada to fight off cold temperatures as well as loneliness, hopefully returning to its master together with his friend John Watson in three months time.

* * *

><p>Thank you all for reading. Please, do tell me what you think of my explanation why Mary shot Sherlock and, of course, about the story itself.<p> 


End file.
